


the things you said

by charizona



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-18 23:28:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3587925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charizona/pseuds/charizona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story of Samaritan in five parts. (And how that affected us).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. at one am

**Author's Note:**

> So there are five chapters - all five can stand alone but loosely connect to make a story. I challenged myself over my spring break to write five prompts from a post (found http://bit.ly/1BkhkPk - linking isn't working). The chapter titles are which ones I chose, but if you have any questions, leave a comment!
> 
> Thanks for reading and if you like it, drop a kudos or a comment!

More and more common, Sameen Shaw’s secrets are whispered against Root’s skin in moments of ecstasy, hidden in folds of bedsheets, forcing Root to search for them in the moments after when the only things left are remnants.

Root’s learned, through trysts like this one and spending time with Shaw on missions, that feelings, when it comes to Shaw, are shipped in small packages. Body language is essential, and Root has become accustomed to reading the stiffness of Shaw’s spine like it’s the morning paper, top to bottom.

In the darkness of a hotel room, buried in an uncomfortable bed, Shaw is a puppet master, hand tracing strings, beckoning goosebumps up and down the length of Root’s arm. The heat of sex turns the air into syrup and Root breathes it in, relishing the feel of it in her throat and on her skin. Shaw, too, is warm against her, legs tangled with Root’s in a mess of blankets and scars.

Shaw, she says, “We should go somewhere.”

Outside, deep in the streets of New York City, a siren goes off. The wail of a firetruck echoes, bouncing against the corners and plateaus of skyscrapers as it plows through traffic. The night, despite itself, is decidedly still.

Root shifts, sheets creasing as they slide against her skin, and says, “You want to go out _now?_ ”

“ _No_.” Shaw exhales, irritation laced in her breath like poison. Her fingers, previously drawing circles on the inside of Root’s elbow, still; the air that falls from her lips dances on the skin stretched across Root’s collarbone. Shaw says, “I meant out of the city.”

“Oh,” Root says, taking it in. There’s a chill in the air, and she wants to pull the blanket up, up, up, covering her prickled skin, but she can’t really move. “You want to take me on vacation?”

Another exhale, less irritated, more resigned. “Sure, Root.”

A weight settles on the two, on the entire room, really, the gravity of the early morning conversation taking hold. The sun hasn’t even risen yet and already Root can taste Shaw’s absence. Beside her, after a long moment of unsettling silence, Shaw stiffens, and Root knows this part of the story all too well.

“You know what?” Shaw starts to extract herself. “Forget I said anything.”

Root makes a decision, sliding her hand around under the sheets to find Shaw’s, taking it in her own. Shaw’s palms are clammy, but she doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t show any sign that she recognizes the touch, but Root squeezes, making a point to dig in her nails and leave imprints in Shaw’s skin.

Root asks, “Where would we go?”

Root pushes her head further into the pillow, hair falling into her face. She watches as Shaw stares at the ceiling, tracing the outline of Shaw’s features with her eyes. Shaw’s chest rises like the morning sun as she breathes, just before she says, “I don’t know.”

Shaw’s arm falls back into place around Root, fingers resume ministrations on Root’s arm. She nuzzles into the space between Shaw’s neck and her collarbone, breathing in the faint scent of sweat and gunpowder. Root can hear the blood flowing beneath the skin if she’s quiet, if they’re both quiet; she can feel the thrum of Shaw’s pulse when she presses her nose against the skin of Shaw’s neck.

“Half the time,” Root says, a hand coming up to trace the tendrils of Shaw’s neck, naming each muscle in her mind, “I don’t know where I’m going until I’m walking up to the ticket counter.”

Shaw hums, reverberation deep in her chest as Root’s nails scratch against her throat, picking the strings of bass. Etching lines into Root’s skin with her own nails, Sameen crooks her neck, pulling it taut. Root’s breathing piques, and she drags her hand down through the valley between Shaw’s breasts, flattening it on her stomach.

Shaw says, “We should go.” The words are simple, holding the weight of the world as Atlas did, though knees do not shudder under the crushing burden. “Finch would let me,” she adds, unblinking. “I’m due for some time off.”

Smiling against Shaw’s neck, Root drags her lips across skin, teeth caressing Shaw’s jaw, and she slides a leg over a bare hip. Shaw lies still, arm bent as though Root were still curled in the spot beside her. Her hair hair is a mess, spilled on the pillow behind her as moonlight washes over her face, shadows curling over her features. Her gaze is easy, expression smooth; it’s different than what Root’s used to, all hard edges and natural scowl.

She doesn’t say it out loud, but her mind wanders to all the things she wants to say. She wants to say that Shaw’s hair looks beautiful like this, innocent, almost. She wants to say that she wishes that she could kiss every part of Shaw’s face without it meaning anything, but the stare that she’s holding with Shaw tells her that it would mean more than she can handle.

Instead, her fingers dance on Shaw’s skin, tracing the planes of her stomach. She watches as the muscles tighten from her touch, entranced by the way Shaw controls her body’s automatic responses, and in the end, lets out a long, extended breath.

As Root towers over her, hair falling around her face, Shaw looks up at her, says, “We should go to sleep.” They’d reached an agreement weeks ago; it makes no sense to leave a hotel room in the middle of the night if they’re paying for it.

Lips curling, Root has an idea that is decidedly better than sleep. “Probably,” she says, “You _do_ have this annoying habit of getting up before the sun.”

Dark eyes stare up at Root with something akin to amusement sparkling within them. Root almost sees the hint of a smile tugging at Shaw’s lips. “You’re _always_ annoying,” Shaw points out, “but it’s more annoying having to drag you out of bed when check-out’s at eleven.”

“What can I say,” Root murmurs, voice dropping as she presses her hips down, “someone keeps me up at night.”

Root’s hair falls over her shoulders, water flooding across her collarbones. She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth and dares Shaw to make a move, her hips rocking slowly, evenly.

She almost yelps when Shaw surges forward, seizing her wrists as she sits up to capture Root’s lips. Her hands are a vice grip around them, holding them stiff at Root’s sides. Her teeth tear into the flesh of Root’s bottom lip, and a tide of iron flows crimson; Shaw tastes the blood, but through it, she tastes Root, tastes desperation, tastes everything she’s never been able to have.

Pulling back, Root’s breathing is shallow, quick, and Shaw stares at her lips. “Looks like,” Root says, “tonight’s not going to be any different.”

“You talk too much,” Shaw argues, pushing her wrists behind her back. Root almost loses her balance, but Shaw holds her, and they sit there, chest to chest.

“You -” Root’s cut off, voice swallowed by a kiss. Shaw kisses her like they have all the time in the world, like Root is the first bite of a five course meal, and her actions, Root supposes, are not wrong. Her lip bleeds like an undercooked steak, pliant against Shaw’s angy mess of teeth and tongue.

Shaw pulls back, sucking on her teeth, outlined with scarlet. “You,” Shaw says, “talk too much.”

  
  



	2. that i wasn't supposed to hear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the middle of the day, traffic’s probably thick above them on the street, and Shaw doesn’t know how to do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter was set post 407, but the time doesn't really matter as long as it's early season four. This one is set after Shaw's cover's been blown, when she's confined underground.

Shaw wouldn’t run, if she had the chance, but she’d rather be doing anything than what she’s doing now, which is nothing.

She can’t help with the computers; she’s not any good at it. Listening to Reese on the other end of the comm just makes her itch to go outside, smell the exhaust of the city streets, feel the adrenaline, pull a trigger once and a while. She’d kill to shoot out a kneecap right about now, but all she has are subpar paper targets that Reese smuggled out for her from his day job.

Well, she thinks idly, leaning back on a subway bench, it’s the thought that counts, even if she wasted those in about three hours.

She can’t even take Bear for walks, because that requires going outside, which is, decidedly, something she can’t do. She looks over at him now, sprawled and conked out, long legs twitching as he runs within a dog dream.

It’s called boredom, if she had to give it a name, the kind that not even the presence of Root can kill. They’d tried the non-traditional ways of curing Shaw’s weariness, but even after a while, that got old. Root, being Root, had taken it upon herself to spend as much time with Shaw as she could, which meant Shaw had to listen to her incessant chatter at all hours.

Not now, though. Now, Root’s as unconscious as the dog, and Shaw is finally awarded with a few moments of peace.

Root snores, Shaw’s noticed, but not in the cute, sleepy kind of way.

She’s like an engine, diesel, roaring on the highway through a good tank of gas. After a few minutes of high quality bliss, she stutters, choking on several good bites of exhaust, and Shaw can’t be bothered stand another minute of it. She glares. Sure, it’s at Root’s sleeping form, but she likes to think that Root can feel the heat of her gaze deep within REM sleep.

Finch and Reese are out, thank God. No one should have to witness this monster truck idle for too long, shaking in fits and starts as she sprawls out over Finch’s computer desk.

From the corner, Shaw catches the shy hint of drool careening it’s way over Root’s bottom lip, and she dares it to fall.

As saliva hits one of Finch’s papers, it looks like Shaw could win the lottery.

Sighing too loud, irritated and put upon and way too old for this shit, Shaw stands and takes her goddamn time making her way over to Root because she’ll be damned if anyone sees her doing what she’s about to do. She waits for what seems like hours to see if anyone comes down the subway steps, to see if Root will somehow, miraculously _wake the fuck up_ , but no dice.

Look’s like she’s on her own.

With about as much softness as a bulldozer, she shifts Root back into Finch’s chair, pursing her lips, waiting for Root’s eyes to flutter open in alarm, for Root to wake up. Root’s neck bends back at such an odd angle, Shaw doesn’t know how she’s _not_ awake, but Root’s still snoring, and Shaw’s still pissed.

She picks up Root’s arms and loops them loosely around her shoulders. Ironic, really, how she’ll barely let Root get this close to her when she’s conscious, and now Shaw’s the one initiating contact. Sliding one hand underneath Root’s thigh and the other sturdily behind her lower back, Shaw grits her teeth and lifts with her legs, not her back, because she wasn’t raised by primitives.

Root’s lighter than she expected, but holy hell is she _tall_. She knew this, yeah, but the difference horizontally is striking. Shaw adjusts, bouncing Root in order not to drop her (although she’s not directly opposed to the idea), and starts walking toward the cot in the corner of the room.

Having gotten to know that cot well, Shaw drops Root onto it, not really caring about how hard the fall is. Her hard work doesn’t necessarily pay off; Root coughs awake as she hits the bumpy surface of the cot and she jolts at her surroundings, just as Shaw takes a step back, nonchalant.

“Did you,” Root says, wiping the drool from her chin, “ _carry_ me over here?”

But Shaw’s already walking away.

“Wait,” Root objects, and Shaw hears her scrambling out of the bed, limbs tired and still waking up, “just wait.”

Shaw stills, standing in the middle of the room and feeling a bit foolish, her back turned to Root as she waits for the next few words. She doesn’t want an invite into the bed - she’s not in the mood - and she can’t think of anything else that Root could possibly say that would keep her any longer. She wishes that Root would go back to sleep.

“I heard you earlier,” Root says, and _oh_. “Talking to John,” she adds, like Shaw needs the clarification (she doesn’t), but more like she needs to affirm it to herself.

Shaw turns, finds Root sitting on the edge of the cot, tangled in the sheets, hair mussed, clothes crumpled. “We’re not doing this,” Shaw says, avoiding looking at Root, avoiding the feeling in her chest.

“I didn’t even say anything yet,” Root deadpans, sighing.

Shaw asks, “What did you hear, Root?”

“You don’t care about me?” The words hang in the air and Shaw doesn’t know what to do with them. Root’s voice isn’t accusatory, isn’t sad, just empty, reminiscent of how Shaw feels most of the time.

Shaw looks Root in the eye, faces the storm head on. She’d had the conversation with John, whispered confessions in the corner of the room, and where she’d never admit to him that she’d take a bullet for the entire team, she’d doesn’t know why it’s so difficult to tell Root that, right here, to her face.

“Is it ‘just physical’ for you, then?”

“Root,” Shaw says, shaking her head. She doesn’t have the words, they won’t come, won’t roll off her tongue as smoothly as she’d like, so she settles on just the name, but it’s not enough.

Root stares at her, then, after a long moment, shrugs. “I know you care,” she says softly, nodding to herself like she needs to the affirmation. Maybe she does. She looks like she regrets the conversation, regrets bringing it up, and Shaw regrets it all, too, and maybe regrets leading Root a little too far.

“Then why bring it up,” Shaw asks, stiff and standing at attention in the middle of the subway, “if it was only going to hurt.”

Root rolls her eyes, looking everywhere but her. “Call me a masochist,” she says, chuckling darkly. She sniffs. “I’m going to go back to sleep,” she adds before turning away from Shaw, curling up in the meager offerings of the cot that Shaw has come to know so well.

Shaw stands there for a moment before she’s walking back to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. She teeters for a second, toeing the line, then she’s lying beside Root above the covers, Root’s back to her. It’s the middle of the day, traffic’s probably thick above them on the street, and Shaw doesn’t know how to do this.

She feels Root’s breathing even out after a long while next to her, feels the tight muscles fall loose after minutes of holding her own breath, waiting for Root to relax and feel comfortable.

She wants this to work, as she shifts, settling an arm around Root’s middle. She wants this to work because she’s never cared about anything more.

 

 


	3. to protect me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It feels too much like something real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set sometime in that sweet-spot where Shaw is working numbers while sticking to the shadow map due to her being number one on Samaritan's kill list. (So, right before 411).

Cheek pressing against the wall, tears prick at Root’s eyes, but arousal floods straight to the apex of her thighs and overcomes the biting pain of metal on skin.

Shaw, she pins her from behind, pulling Root’s hands back step-by-step, not unlike a cop, and Root grins against the side of the subway car when she hears the _click_ of handcuffs. The hard metal digging into her wrists feels amazing, almost better than Shaw’s hips against her ass.

“I have rights,” Root breathes, hoping, praying, _needing_ Shaw to play along, because if this isn’t the hottest thing she’s ever partaken in - “Officer,” she adds, oxygen heavy, “You can’t do this.” She makes sure to add the whiny quality to her voice, that one inflection she knows Shaw hates, grinning when she hears - no _feels_ , Shaw’s breath hot against the back of her neck - an irritated grunt in return.

“I’ll do whatever the hell I want,” Shaw says, dragging Root backward. She stumbles, all long limbs and awkward angles, “including go on a mission without you,” Shaw mutters, leading Root toward the cot in the corner.

Root’s beginning to catch on. She knows why Shaw’s irritated with her, but who is she to object when the punishment is so sweet? Well, she thinks, as Shaw promptly throws her onto the cot, and she gets a face full of fresh-scented pillow, maybe not entirely sweet.

Shaw pushes her face further into the down, unclicking the handcuffs, much to Root’s disdain. Root groans, the sound muffled by very low thread count sheets. She can practically feel Shaw’s eye roll.

“Quit whining,” Shaw says instead, and Root acquiesces, not wanting to take anything too far when there are so many lines with Shaw that she dare not cross. Shaw probes at her shoulder, and Root rolls, staring up at Shaw with dark, arousal-filled eyes. “God,” Shaw groans, “This really gets you, doesn’t it?”

“It really does,” Root says, rubbing at her wrists. They’re raw, red lines where there should be blessedly unmarked skin, red at the shores of sand.

Shaw looks like she wants to say something, words pulling desperately for a hand-hold at the edge of the cliff, but she holds her tongue, instead staring down at Root for what feels like an eternity. She lets Root lie there. Edging her way over, knees bordering Root’s hips, she takes Root’s wrists in her own hands, gentle and forgiving in a way that she usually isn’t.

Leaning down to kiss Root, lips brushing, teasing, she has Root’s arms pinned above her head faster than Root can object, and Root grins wickedly. Root’s chest heaves, craving the contact.

Shaw holds her down and reaches for the handcuffs again. This time, she makes sure Root is restrained to a metal pipe, an entity not even connected to the bed, but something sure to keep Root’s hands to herself.

“You have to like this, too,” Root fires back when Shaw sits up, almost admiring her work. Root’s hair is a mess of striations, bruises littering her neck. Shaw shrugs. Root rolls her eyes, a habit she adopted from Shaw, and says, “Doesn’t it make you hot?”

Shaw presses her hands against Root’s ribcage and feels the heart beating underneath the bones, deep within skin, and doesn’t say a word. She’s not in the mood to play games, although the compromising position they’re in says differently. Root breathes against her hands, the thrum of her heart increasing as Shaw shifts above her, and Shaw listens, feels, both to Root’s pulse and her breath.

Root knows when Shaw’s in a mood like this, when she wants to take her time, savor the moment. It always happens, oddly, when Root wants to be fucked, and Shaw just wants to stop, breathe, taste, feel. It feels too much like something real.

“Sameen,” Root says, shattering the ever growing silence between them, and Shaw’s eyes flicker toward her, tormented and entirely too full of feeling.

Her fingers work faster, then. She starts with the top button of Root’s shirt and inches down, taking out each one like a tornado, revealing the plain black bra that gets Root through the day. Root is pliant under her touch, as Shaw drags nails across her skin just under her navel, itching across her skin and leaving raw, red marks.   

Root, anxious and _not in the mood_ for taking their time, says, “I thought you said we had a new number.”

Shaw shakes her head, leans down and presses her lips against Root’s collarbone. Her teeth graze the skin there, and Root’s diversion, Root’s reminder that they’re thin on time obviously didn’t go anywhere. Shaw says against saltine skin, “It’s not _your_ number.”

“It’s not?” Root manages, as Shaw’s hand hovers over her breast, palming the sensitive flesh through the unreliably-thin fabric. “I thought -”

“You’re not coming,” Shaw tells her, leaving no room for protest.

But Root’s never really been one to fall for Shaw’s no-argument voice. She squirms underneath Shaw, dislodging her position, and effectively forces her to meet her gaze. “What do you mean,” Root asks, simple enough, “that I’m not coming with?”

A hand brushes against Root’s hip, but she’s not paying attention. “You’re not,” Shaw says again. “John and I have this. I’ll stick to the shadow map. We don’t need your help.”

Root knows, for a fact, that it’s not a two person job. It’s too dangerous, walking into the warehouse alone and without backup, even if it is just another number. She’d planned on going with them anyway, but she doesn’t know why Shaw’s being such a hardass about it.

She squints, exhaling. “I’m perfectly capable of handling myself,” she says. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

Shaw pulls back, realizing where the conversation’s going. “I know that,” she sighs, running a hand through her thick hair, tendrils curling around her shoulders. Root feels her thighs contract around her hips, the jolt of arousal between her own thighs peaks in response.

She wants to lean up and kiss Shaw, bite her lips and draw blood. She wants to prove that she _can_ handle herself more than anything, but she’s handcuffed and pinned down.

She can see the turmoil twisting inside of Shaw, as her expression remains blank; she’s gotten good at reading her over the past few months. After a moment, Shaw says, “Fine, you can come.”

“Okay,” Root says, settling back into the bed. “Was that so hard?” Shaw rolls her eyes and tightens her grip around Root’s middle, digging fingers into Root’s side. “Now,” Root adds, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, “kiss me, and then, _fuck me_. We have a number to save.”

Shaw complies, kissing her. It’s bruising, Shaw’s kiss, and it’s everything Root needs it to be.

Her hands drift, slipping below Root’s waistband before slipping back again, teasing, pulling Root’s hips from the bed with just a touch. Root groans, frustrated, as Shaw’s lips bring blood to the surface of her skin, blossoming hickeys for the morning, and once again, the thought is reiterated in her mind. They don’t have time for this.

She says, “Sameen, we need to go.”

“No,” Shaw says, sitting up, leaning on Root in such a way that Root can feel that heat between Shaw’s legs, “ _I_ have to go.”

She slides off Root and straightens her clothes, the panic inside Root’s chest quickly growing as she realizes what’s happening. “Sameen,” she warns.

“Root,” Shaw mocks, pulling her hair into a ponytail. She gives Root one last, sparing glance. “I’ll meet you later, if you want.”

Root almost doesn’t believe it when Shaw leaves her there, disappearing around the corner. She leaves, and Root is left fuming, handcuffed to a bed and half-naked.

 

 


	4. over the phone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw doesn’t think too much about the last moment she spent with Root alone. 
> 
> It hurts too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter: Shaw goes out for a mission.  
> This chapter: Uh. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Shaw doesn’t think too much about the last moment she spent with Root alone.

It hurts too much. And not a hurt in her chest, but a headache kind of hurt, splintering like the bullet in her head did when Martine shot her, and if there’s one thing Shaw doesn’t do, it’s hurt. She does anger, though, and she fumes at the walls around her, the lack of windows. She fumes at the zip ties around her wrists, binding her weak body to the hospital bed she’s confined to, and the gown wrapped loose around her body. She doesn’t even want to begin to know where they acquired it from.

She can only imagine Jeremy Lambert walking into a hospital with his smug smile, grinning at all the nurses, moments before slipping into a supply closet. Or maybe he didn’t need to, maybe Samaritan acquired it all for them, as most all-seeing, all-powerful A.I.s are wont to do. No? Just the one, then.

She clenches her hands into fists, feels the tendons in her arms push and pull as she silently begs herself to be well again.

Stretching out her feet, Shaw doesn’t know if she’d be able to walk properly even if she could make it out of the bed. Normally, she’s good at reading these kind of things, but she has no clue how long she’s been here, how old the needle and drip in her arm are, and she hasn’t seen a single soul since she woke up, not since Greer.

Maybe it is Hell, but she never expected Hell to have two pillows.

After three days of semi-regular consciousness, she finally sees a familiar face. The hurt’s back again, anger flaring through her temples as Martine slips through the door as quietly as she can, not even looking toward the bed.

She does, then, and her smile is almost warm, as though they’re old friends and Shaw’s just awoke from a coma. _Long time no see, I shot you in the fucking head._

Martine, she says, “I’m supposed to making sure you’re not generating any escape plans.” She settles in the corner, leaning into the chair, feeling safe, crooking an eyebrow up at Shaw as though Shaw can’t reply back. She asks, “Are you?”

Shaw itches to overcome the hurt in her head, the hurt in her chest, the hurt screaming through her veins, only if to make _Martine_ hurt. It’d be worth it if it lasted for just a second. She’d die if she could take Martine down with her, but she supposes that’s why they’re both still standing, alive and, well, mostly okay.

“Silence looks good on you, Shaw,” Martine comments, crossing her legs. Her hands rest on her knees, and Shaw presses her wrists against the plastic of the zipties, grounding herself as pain shoots up her nerves.

The morphine in her blood is making everything hazy, but there has to be something, anything, that will tell her where she is. And then, she’ll be able to get word out. She’ll die trying, but then at least they won’t have anything to hold against the others.

“You know what else was interesting?” Martine says, examining, it seems, her own hands. “The security footage from the Stock Exchange.”

“Why,” Shaw says, her voice thicker than usual from disuse, “you get off on watching yourself run around with a gun?”

“Surprisingly, no,” Martine says, “but I did catch a glimpse of you and, what’s her name? Sam? Two Sams, isn’t that peculiar?” If Martine notices the tightening of Shaw’s jaw, she only grins wider as she stands up, straightening her jacket. She presses her palms flat against her clothes, smoothing them out.

She reaches into her pocket, pulling out a cell phone. Shaw watches as she puts it on the small table at the foot of the bed, leaving it in plain sight.

Winking, she says, “If you get homesick,” and then she leaves, just like that.

But it’s some sort of cruel joke because the morphine trudging through the thick sludge that is Shaw’s blood is rendering her useless; she couldn’t reach that phone even if she was handcuffed. As much as she could strain against the zip ties, they only serve to taunt her as the phone does, sitting and waiting to be used, to get a message out.

Greer, his people, they must know how incapable she is right now.

And for weeks, it seems, she sits in that bed. She sleeps, someone unrecognizable comes in to change the morphine drip, and always, always, Shaw can’t move.

It’s almost around week four that she comes to the conclusion that there has to be a paralytic in the solution. That has to be the only way - she knows, years of medical school will do that to a person - she should be healing by now, but she’s not. She should be weaned off the hard stuff, two pills and a cup of water forced into her hand, but instead she’s left to stare at the plain walls and a phone that never lights up.

When the someone comes in again, Shaw says, “What are you giving me?”

It doesn’t even earn her a glance.

“I went to med school,” she slurs, the drip new and nice and strong, “It’s okay, I just - I need to know.”

“Morphine,” is all she gets in return and, two days later, the phone is gone when she wakes up, but she can move her toes. It’s the little things, she thinks, but she’s almost back to square one. Almost.

And two weeks later, her wrists are bloody but free from the zip ties and she’s ready for them when they come to change the morphine. When the door opens she’s sluggish, yes, but she slams a head against a wall and slips out the door, silence coating her skin like a weapon. She stumbles, searches the body for a cell phone. She finds nothing.

She does find a landline exactly fifty steps away from her door, and she lifts the receiver because she’s drugged and escaping won’t do. She dials a number she has memorized, a number she hasn’t called in a long, long time.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end is weary, and Shaw leans heavily against the wall, clutching at the receiver because it’s the only thing keeping her here.

Shaw says, “Root,” and, “it’s too much morphine,” and hears the sharp intake of breath on the other end a moment before she hears the footfalls and the click of a gun.

“They’re coming,” Shaw says, “A - A compound, somewhere. I haven’t seen a window. Trace this, if you can, I’ll keep the line open for as long as I’m able to, but they’re coming.”

Shaw can hear on the other end, can hear Root taking charge and keeping herself under control, but when she turns and catches a glimpse of a whip of blonde hair, Shaw grips the phone even tighter. “Root,” she says, “There’s something -”

“I’m going to find you,” Root interrupts, and she's reverent even over the static of what Shaw's sure is long distance.

Shaw hears the gunshot before she feels it, the bullet ripping through her leg needlessly, although Shaw’s sure Martine would’ve been able to subdue her without bullets flying. There's so, so much morphine.

“Shaw?” Root’s voice is frantic, and all Shaw can do is hold the receiver to her ear as Martine takes her time, lowering her gun and glaring.

“I’m fine,” Shaw says, levelling her gaze. “Did you get what you needed?”

Static on the other end, the line cut. Shaw sighs, lets the phone clatter on the ground, and leans against the wall, breathing heavy and thick, blood on her lips, hands, shirt.

“What about you, Shaw,” Martine says, kneeling down near the floor, “Did you get what you needed?”

Shaw doesn’t say a word, only glares with all her might, but she’s sure that the morphine makes it significantly less threatening than her normal expression would be. She needs Martine to feel the heat of it, wants Martine to feel the business end of her Walther P99, but that’s for another day, it seems.

“Because I,” Martine finishes, “I definitely got what I needed.”

 

 


	5. after it was over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s limping, her leg still hurts like a bitch, but occasionally, Root’s hand drifts to the small of her back and she doesn’t want to snap it in half, which is a new feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's March 27th! And this story is over!

With sand covering her skin and in places she’d rather it wasn’t, Shaw’s got fifty saying Root burns until she blisters.

She’s betting against Reese, but she doesn’t know who in their right mind would bet against her in this one. It might be a pity bargain, after her captivity, but hey, she’ll take fifty bucks where she can get it. It’s not like she even has a cover identity to fall back on.

Regardless, she falls too many times to count.

She can hardly walk, due to the fact that she hasn’t taken her own advice to rest. Although, now that they’re not even in the States anymore, she supposes this counts as resting. At least she’s not shooting anyone. _Yet_ , she thinks, glaring at the sun through her sunglasses.

The beach isn’t busy, just a few chance civilians, like themselves, far enough away that Shaw can’t even judge them accurately. Nevertheless, no one besides Root wants to see the nasty scar tracing spiderwebs across her thigh, the one she doesn’t bother covering up, not in this heat.

Footsteps behind her, Shaw cranes her neck to find Root shifting through the sand, taking careful steps as she stares at the ocean beyond. Something in her gaze, holding the gentle press of the waves against the shore, prompts Shaw to stay silent.

Shaw doesn’t burn, and Root seems to know her own skin well enough. Shaw catches the glint of sun off a sunscreen bottle, just as Root sits down in the empty space beside her, the grainy static of displaced sand filling the still air. She offers the bottle to Shaw first, but Shaw merely shakes her head.

Lying down on the ground, sand sprinkled on her skin, Shaw presses her cheek against her forearm and watches as Root squeezes a line of sunscreen into her hand.

“There’s heat in Texas,” Shaw says after a while, while Root’s hands glide over soft, alabaster skin too precious for a sun this harsh. Shaw finds that she can’t imagine Root with a sunburn, but she’s sure that after this week, she’ll have one.

“There’s heat in a lot of places,” Root responds, not looking at her. They haven’t taken the time to talk about past lives, focusing on the present. Not really hard, when the present is so full of excitement, especially when Shaw doesn’t mind staying silent.

Shaw lets out a breath. A relaxed breath, fatigued. She hasn’t held a gun in days and she’s okay with it. There’s a longing ache within her, though it’s different from when she was trapped underground. “I was talking about your skin,” Shaw says.

“It’s a different heat,” Root says softly, staring at smeared white legs. “Dry, I guess.” Her head moves as she looks up at Shaw, eyes roaming over the expanse of sand-soaked skin. “You look amazing in a bikini.”

Shaw rolls her eyes, turning her head away from Root and toward the shore. She doesn’t brush off Root’s hand when she feels oily fingers land on her shoulder, pressing into the skin. Root moves to lie beside her; the rush of the waves is almost peaceful as her fingertips traces nonsense on Shaw’s skin.

Root asks, “What about you?” and it’s been so long, Shaw almost forgets what they were talking about.

“My cheeks, always,” she answers. “Used to burn to the point they peeled off, I rode my bike everywhere.”

Something about Root’s silence tells her that Root wasn’t expecting an answer.

They stay like that, listening to the occasional person wander too close, conversations drifting on a cell phone. They’d both agreed to leave theirs in the hotel room, buried away in bags, just for a day on the beach. Shaw’s grateful for the silence, though the city’s grown on her. Something about perpetual noise digs under her skin, she loves it.

Root’s hand drifts, and a laugh bubbles from Shaw’s throat as a finger snaps underneath bikini straps. She turns her head, finds Root looking at her innocently.

“We’re on a beach, Sameen,” Root says, finding it necessary to remind her of the bliss.

Shaw sighs, though she can’t really hang onto the anger. “Not a nude beach.”

“They don’t have sex on nude beaches,” Root points out, hand slipping down, down, and _down_ , blatantly over the curve of Shaw’s ass and between Shaw’s legs. She stares at Shaw like she hasn’t moved at all, and Shaw sucks her bottom lip between her teeth.

Biting down, Shaw lets Root continue, lets Root slide two fingers along her sex, sending static along the length of her spine. She’s sure she’s going to have sand there, too, exactly where sand should not be, but knowing she won’t dissuade Root, she might as well - _ah_ \- let Root get it over with.

Root smirks, and Shaw widens her legs for the fingers that never push deeper than teasing. Root only skims a finger down her labia, and Shaw finds that she can relax.

“I’m glad you agreed to come, Shaw,” Root says, her voice quiet, sighing and catching on the slight breeze, and it’s everything Shaw wishes Root would say, if only she had an excuse to say it back.

Shaw presses her forehead into her forearm, practically breathing in sand, asks, “Where else would I go?”

The smile that lights up Root’s face is almost too sweet, Shaw regrets her words instantly, amending them. “Reese and Finch are boring,” she says, groaning as Root’s nail brushes her clit, “and not what I need to be thinking about right now.”

“No,” Root agrees, leaning forward to kiss her. Languid, filled with sand particles, the kiss is too sugary for Shaw’s taste.

Root pushes two fingers inside of her and she practically jumps, burying her face into the hot, wet sand. It isn’t the most comfortable of arrangements, but with Root pulsing inside of her, breath hot on the side of Shaw’s face, Shaw’s had worse.

“This is new,” Root points out, dragging her closer toward climax with every curl of her finger, every drag of her nail, every push and pull.

Shaw, never having been one for talking, just nods.

She comes a few minutes later, a mouthful of sand that she wishes, so desperately, was a pillow.

It’s only later, when they’re making their way back to the hotel, wrapped in their sand covered towels, that Shaw lets herself smile. She’s limping, her leg still hurts like a bitch, but occasionally, Root’s hand drifts to the small of her back and she doesn’t want to snap it in half, which is a new feeling. There are so many new things with Root, with them, after Samaritan.

More and more common, Sameen Shaw’s secrets are said out-loud, and her trust is buried in quick sentences, sand-sprinkled kisses, with not only lust, but something more.


End file.
